“Me afraid? Afraid of what? A ghost? What d’ye think I am, another Leander Hill? The snivelin’ dirt! Shaking in his shoes ― looking over his shoulder ― creeping on his face! He was born a yellow-belly, and he died the same―”
Laurel hit him on the cheek with her fist. His left arm came up impatiently and brushed her aside. She staggered backward halfway across the room into Alfred Wallace’s arms.
“Let go of me,” she whispered. “Let go!”
“Laurel,” said Ellery.
She stopped, breathing from her diaphragm. Wallace silently released her.
Laurel walked out of the room.
“Afraid!” A spot swelled on Priam’s cheekbone. “You think so?” he bellowed after her. “Well, a certain somebody’s gonna find out that my pump don’t go to pieces at the first blow! Afraid, am I? I’m ready for the goddam! Any hour of the day or night, understand? Any time he wants to show his scummy hand! He’ll find out I got a pretty good pair myself!” And he opened and closed his murderous hands, and Ellery thought again of Wolf Larsen.
“Roger. What’s the matter?”
And there she was in the doorway. She had changed to a hostess gown of golden silk which clung as if it loved her. It was slit to the knee. She was glancing coolly from her husband to Ellery.
Wallace’s eyes were on her. They seemed amused.